


G is for Gareth Loghain Theirin, Enchanter

by OtakuElf



Series: YADAA (Yet Another Dragon Age Alphabet) [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Growing Up, Magic-Users, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf





	G is for Gareth Loghain Theirin, Enchanter

Gareth went to the Kinloch Circle at the age of nine years. He had set his sister, Wynne’s, bed on fire. Wynne was in the bed at the time teasing Gareth about his clumsiness with the daggers that Uncle Zevran had gifted them. She had taken those blackened steel knives. Confiscated, as she said. Wynne was younger than Gareth, but she knew how to make him very angry indeed. Gareth had not known which astonished him more. That he had - in anger - done something so incredibly interesting, or that he had experienced his first smite. 

The smite was painful. The smite had been cast by his father, and had followed his father dispelling magic within the area of the children’s rooms. Anything magic in the rooms had immediately stopped working. Then there had been the pressure and pain of the smite. And then Gareth had to face the anger of his father and mother. It had not been pleasant.

“You will not use magic to harm your family!” Alistair’s thunderous voice had echoed from stone wall to stone wall. The anger in his face, the shock and hurt, had been frightening.

“Oh, Gareth.” That had been his mother, Queen Anora’s, mournful comment.

Gareth knew then that he’d done something terrible. He was the heir to the throne of Ferelden. He had responsibilities. He couldn’t possibly be a mage. He was supposed to be a good king. Caring for his people. Even his stupid sister who was better at everything than he was.

Gareth had visited the three circles of Ferelden with his parents a few times over the years. There were two overseen by the Chantry, in Waking Sea and at Lake Calenhad. The last was in Vigil’s Keep, and was a Grey Warden Circle - the first of its kind. To begin with, Gareth did not see all that much difference between the cold draftiness of the worked stone of the palace in Denerim, the cold draftiness of the stone tower of Kinloch Hold, or the cool draftiness of the chambers in the bannorn of Waking Sea. Vigil’s Keep was only moderately more interesting because Uncle Theron was there, with his mabari. Yes, watching apprentices casting fire was wicked, but it was awfully tedious, because Father had made sure that Gareth and his siblings had endured watching the entire practice. Those apprentices had cast that one small spell over and over and over. It all reminded Gareth of sword practice. And shield practice. And knives. And polishing armor. His father had been adamant about the children learning to protect themselves. Which meant that Wynne had to do all those things too, small as she was. The babies were all too young at this point.

The one good thing about defense practice was that Zel was there. Zel was good at all of those things. Zel’s father, Uncle Zevran, could move so silently that you never saw him until he popped out of hiding and tickled you. Not that Uncle Zevran tickled Father. Or Mother. But Gareth had seen him plenty of times in the corners making the female guards and maids laugh. Zel told him that Uncle Zevran had made the male guards and footmen laugh too.

Zel was Gareth’s friend. Gareth wished that Zel was his brother, but then Zel would not be Zel. Gareth had often wished he had Zel’s ears. Not just the pointed tips, but also Zel’s ability to tell when people were coming long before Gareth could. Gareth was bigger and not as pretty as Zel. But then, Gareth’s mother told him that he looked like his grandfather, in spite of the red-gold hair. Zel’s hair was light, blond but not yellow like Gareth’s. Zel, short for Zelwyn, looked like Uncle Zevran, but small. Together they explored the palace, practiced escaping from the rope tricks that Uncle Zevran set for them, and tormented Wynne.

The thing that worried Gareth the most about being a mage was that he would have to go to the Circle, and Zel could not. Zel wasn’t a mage. He was going to be one of his father’s scouts. This bothered Gareth a good deal. So he did exactly what he thought was right. He went to Zel and talked to him about it. Or rather, since Gareth was in disgrace and confined to the classroom to be bored, he waited until Zel picked the locks and climbed in a window.

Alistair came to his son later, after the children had been put to bed. They each had a separate room - very small, with tapestries hung on the tall grey stone walls. Usually Gareth kept his lamp lit, reading until he fell asleep. Tonight his room was dark.

“Gareth?” The boy had never heard his father sound like that - hesitant, sad. 

“Yes, Father?” Gareth’s response was the invitation that his father needed. Kneeling by his eldest son’s small - for a king’s son anyway - bed, Alistair took Gareth in his arms. Gareth was used to being hugged by his father. King or not, Alistair was physically affectionate, an arm around his children’s shoulders, a hand ruffling through their hair. “Father?” Gareth’s voice was muffled against his father’s shoulder. “You’re squishing me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” The tight grip loosened but did not release.

“Father?” Gareth thought his father might be crying. “I’m sorry that I’m a mage.”

“What? No! Gareth, no! Being a mage is something…a gift…that the Maker gave to you! Never apologize for that! It’s going to be hard. That is the truth. But your mother and I are proud of you. You are a brave, good boy. 

“I’d prefer that you not set fire to your sister’s bed again, though.”

“Oh. Really?” That came out quavery and not at all the grownup voice that Gareth, as someone leaving to go to the Circle, should have.

“Gareth, we love you. Even if you were not our son, you know that we don’t think mages are bad or wrong. Magic is made to serve man. If it weren’t a good thing, the Maker would not have given it to us. You will learn to control it. Then…think of the amazing things you will be able to do!”

“Then why are you crying, Father?” Gareth was confused.

Alistair took a deep breath and set Gareth back so that he could look into those hazel-coloured eyes. “Never doubt that I love you and your sisters and brothers, Gareth,” he said fiercely.

Gareth shook his head soberly. Alistair reached forward to brush a stray lock of hair from that young face. “Do you remember your mother explaining about noblesse oblige?” the king asked with seriousness.

“‘Those who rule have an obligation to care for those they rule. To rule is to serve.’” It was obvious that the boy was quoting. He even had the lilt of Anora in his tone.

“Very good. You remembered what your mother said word for word. What does it mean?” The king was still serious.

“A king, or queen, or emperor or empress, can never just do what they want. To rule is to lead by the laws, and to take care of the people in the country. To do what is best for everyone. Sometimes it may not always be what everyone else thinks it is. So you have to be careful in your decisions.” Gareth bowed his head, blushed face visible in the light from the doorway. “Like not getting angry at sisters for stupid things.”

“You understand that you can’t inherit the crown now that you’re a mage? You won’t be king now.” There was no hesitation in that statement.

“No. I know that. You’re going to send me to the tower. To a Circle. That means that Wynne will be Queen.” Gareth was not an unintelligent child.

“Well, yes. Unless she’s a mage too.” Alistair laughed when Gareth made a face at the idea. “Of course, if all of you end up as mages, that may cause problems.”

Gareth peered down at his father suspiciously. His father had, at times, what Gareth’s mother called “an unfortunate sense of humor”.

King Alistair went on, “Yes. We’ve told you what happened when your Aunt Isolde tried to hide Connor’s powers. You need to be trained so that bad things don’t happen. Accidents. Like when someone picks up a sword and doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Your power, as a mage, is like being king. You have the ability. You need to learn to use it for the good of the people. That is your obligation, because the Maker gave you that great power.”

“But why were you crying, then?” Gareth was working his way through all of this.

“Because I cast a smite on you, Gareth. And I’m sorry. I never thought I would do something like that to one of my children. It was unnecessary. I overreacted, and I am here to offer my apology to you.” Gareth was having difficulty reading his father’s face in the shadow. Alistair’s voice was steady, not as odd as when he’d come into the room.

Gareth sat silent for a moment. “I didn’t mind, father.” That was said quietly.

Alistair sighed heavily. “Regardless of whether you minded or not, it was wrong for me to do so. Will you accept my apology? We do not cast spells on children to begin with.”

“Not even when they’re on fire?” Gareth’s treble was still serious.

“Well, yes. I would put out the fire, Gareth. But there was no reason for me to smite you. I had put out the spell, and Andressa had put out the fire on Wynne. She was safe and not actually burnt.” Alistair sounded as though he were working his way through this as much as Gareth.

“Well -” Gareth sounded much like his father “- it was interesting.”

“Regardless of that -” started the patient response.

Gareth interrupted it with, “- and I will need to know what it feels like, won’t I? Because if I do that again, the templars will smite me. Won’t they?”

“But you’re not going to do it again, Gareth. Nor are you going to pick fights with templars.” Alistair’s response was a reminder that Gareth had been in trouble.

“Zel and I,” Gareth began, and when his father tried to stop him, spoke over the king, “Zel and I have decided that you need to teach him how to cast the smite. So that he can use it when we need it. He can practice it on me.”

“Oh, you and Zel have decided this, have you? Is Zel here, under your bed again?” Alistair picked up the draping bedclothes to look.

Gareth shook his head. “No. Uncle Zevran came in before you and carried him away. But he is my minder. We’ve decided that. Like you and Uncle Zevran. So even if he can’t come to the Circle with me, he needs to learn how to stop magic, and smite, and all the things that templars do.”

Gareth’s father was shaking slightly. “It’s not that simple, Gareth.”

Gareth pointed out, “But he can’t be a templar. Because then he wouldn’t be working with us. For the Theirins. So you will have to teach him, and not the Chantry.”

The shaking got stronger, and Gareth’s father made a silly noise in his throat. “What an interesting idea, Gareth. Who came up with this? You or Zelwyn?”

“Zel, Father. But he’s right, isn’t he? He’s mine. My friend. He’ll need to know how to protect me, like he does with the knives and swords. Just like I’ll be able to protect him with my magic. Even if I have to go away for a while to train at the Circle. Though I wish he could go with me. Nobody understands me like he does, you know.” That bit of commentary was said in unconscious imitation of Queen Anora, making the king choke again.

After taking a moment to contain himself, to put a stop to the laughter threatening to break through - for the king did not want his son to think he was taking this matter or this suggestion as anything less than seriously - Alistair reached up and gave his eldest son another embrace. Speaking into his son’s soft hair, the king said, “We will work this out. There is merit in what you young ruffians have come up with. Now go to sleep. We’ll worry about all this in the morning.”

Gareth returned the embrace tightly. “Alright, Father. And Father? I apologized to Wynnie.”

Alistair stood and ruffled his son’s hair. “Good job, Gareth. Goodnight!”


End file.
